1. The Midnight Transformation

1

THE MIDNIGHT TRANSFORMATION

(RIVEN)

“ O nly half an hour more,” I murmur, looking away from the huge clock that hangs overhead.

“It was almost midnight, and although the celebration around me was in full swing, I was far removed from it. The Great Alliance Festival was a sight to behold.” It’s the rare occasion where leaders of Eldralore’s most powerful factions —the faes, elves, witches, vampires, and dragons—set aside centuries of grudges to honor the fragile peace that keeps the realm from tearing apart. This feast is held once a year.

At the heart of the festival is the center of attention —a great and imposing table carved from an ancient oak and draped in silk woven from enchanted spider threads. Around this table sits the Lords, Kings, Queens, and Highborn of Eldralore, each representing a distinct realm of magic.

At the head of the table, first of the ranks, is my father. King Faelor, the Fae King. He’s tall and formidable with long shimmering silver hair that flows down his back and eyes the color of the forest at dusk. He exudes timeless beauty and authority that I’ve been told I embody by everyone who comes my way. I see it, too. I see him each time I look in the mirror.

Beside him is Queen Morgath of the witch coven, beautiful in a scary way. I’ve never liked her and trust my instincts enough to keep my distance.” Her gaze is sharp and calculating, her lips perpetually curved in a twisted smile. Right now, she’s dressed in red robes that reflect the harsh lights from the magic balls above.

To Queen Morgath’s left is Allegre, the Vampire Lord, whose pale skin glows like moonlight against his crimson coat. His eyes flit around the pavilion, ever-watchful, although his body seems relaxed as he drums his fingers over the table. I watch him raise his goblet in faint amusement at something Lord Eryndor said, and his fangs flash as he takes a sip of red wine —or is that blood?

Across from him is Lord Eryndor, the Elven Chieftain, his golden hair cascading down his shoulders, almost as long as my father’s. His expression is sharp and green as emeralds, and as he talks, his posture is straight and regal.

Finally, at the other end of the table is Queen Zahira. Of everyone at the table, her presence is the most physically imposing, and that’s because she’s a dragon. Although she’s in her humanoid form —which dragons assume to mingle sometimes—she still looks different.

Her eyes are black and slit like a snake, and there’s a shimmer of iridescent scales all over her body, hinting at what she can become in the twinkle of an eye. One breath, and she’ll incinerate this entire pavilion to the ground.

My father suddenly rises to his feet, holding up his chalet. “A toast, then?” He asks, his voice carrying over the din of the festival. He brings me to this festival every year, despite my unwillingness, because he says it’s a tradition I must continue when I become Fae King. Above him, the clock shows it is twenty minutes to midnight.

“May this alliance and oath that we retake tonight keep Eldralore safe for now and many years to come,” my father says.

“To peace,” Queen Morgath echoes.

“To peace,” the rest of the table agrees, clinking their chalets and taking huge gulps of whatever is inside.

“Around me, the people cheer, their joy a thin mask for the lies beneath. That’s why I hate this festival—a colossal sham.”

The leaders currently seated at the table —pretending to be keeping an alliance with each other— are the biggest liars. Yes, that includes my father.

At the beginning of every year, they come together like this, but after this festival, they go right back to plotting and hating each other. The fae kingdom, for one, hates witches. My father is currently smiling widely at Queen Morgath, nodding aptly at what she’s saying. Still, he will be the first to license the killing of any witch that wanders into fae territory without his express permission.

I turn away from their fake show, looking up at the clock and realizing it’s time to make my exit. Every time I come to this festival, ten minutes before midnight, I escape into the Forest of Herbs until dawn.

The Forest of Herbs is a peculiar place because it’s between the Fae territory and the Witch coven. It belongs to no one, but fae magic is powerful there, so the witches generally avoid it. I’ve successfully hidden myself there for five Great Alliance festivals, so I’m confident that I can go there again.

The moment I turn towards the exit, my path is blocked by a beautiful woman in flowing white robes. This is Lady Kaelith, the last person I want to interact with tonight.

“Hello, Riven,” she says with a seductive smile, delicately laying a hand on my chest. “Where are you off to?”

I swipe her hand off me. “Hello, Kaelith.”

Her smile widens, her gaze drifting to the clock on the wall. “Oh, it’s almost midnight.”

There’s a mocking twinge in her eyes, which brings me to the reason for the deplorable state of our relationship. Looking at her now, in all her beauty and splendor, I feel nothing. It’s shocking that there was a time when I was in love with her.

“Kaelith, please get out of my way,” I say politely, aware of the eyes on us. As the fae Prince, I’m constantly being watched, and Kaelith is of very noble birth, too, so we’re quite the spectacle.

“What if I don’t?” She teases, stepping closer to me, her arms wrapping around my waist. “What if I keep you here until midnight? What if everyone saw who you really are?”

Her arms tighten around me, and I don’t know the silly games she’s playing, but I won’t be a part of it. From the corner of my eye, I realize that only ten minutes remain until midnight.

“Kaelith.” I lean close, angling my mouth to her ear. “Take your hands off of me in one second. I don’t want to be mean to you, but I will be if you force my hand.”

She glares right at me, her blue gaze searching for mine. She probably sees how serious I am because, in the next second, she pulls away from me and courtesies before stepping aside. With one last nod at her, I walk as normally as possible toward the exit.

As soon as I step out of the hall and into the darkness, I sprint into the forest, marching over shrubs and plants and heading deep into the heart of the wilderness, where no one can and will find me.

Minutes later, I’m where I want to be. I slow down, surrounded by the whispering of the wind as it rustles through the leaves and branches around me. Here in the deep of the forest, the magic is at its peak. For us faes, the earth —especially trees— are a natural fuel for our energy. Surrounded by it, I can feel the thrum of the magic in my blood. But it’s dull, slowly receding, and I know the time is almost near.

I lean against a tree, taking deep breaths and waiting for the curse to take place like it does every midnight. The pain comes first, but it’s not physical. The entire process doesn’t hurt my body at all. The pain? It’s emotional and mental. What hurts most is that for the duration of the curse, from midnight until dawn, I lose my magic —the essence that makes me fae.

I can’t remember a time when I slept through the night like a normal being would. I don’t even know what it feels like to experience midnight. I should be used to this; I’m several decades old, but no, it doesn’t get easier. Each time, the pain is fresh. I’ve stopped hoping for a miracle and have just accepted my fate that I will live the rest of my life like this.

My blood began to freeze, and I put all my weight on the oak tree behind me, steadying my breath and waiting for the frost to take over. As my body undergoes this gruesome change, I hear the snap of leaves somewhere to my left and stand at attention, my heart beating wildly in my chest. I sense a witch.

Someone is out there, and it’s a witch. This makes me suspicious and even more alert. No other being can make it to the heart of this forest —where fae magic pulses in the soul of every tree— and remain in one piece, especially a witch. So why do I sense one? I'd hate to do this in front of an audience, let alone a witch.

I hear the rustle of leaves again and snap my head toward the sound. The light of the moon is illuminating enough but not strong enough to penetrate the dense pack of trees where the stranger currently is. I stretch out my hand, willing light to come forth, but my magic fails to respond under the suppression of the curse.

“Step into the light,” I infuse authority in my voice. “Whoever you are.”

There’s a slight pause, and then the image of a woman appears from the gross darkness. A few moments later, she steps into the circle of light, and I gasp —not because of her ethereal beauty, but because this woman is a witch. How can a witch be standing in the deep of the Forest of Herbs?

Her hair is a fiery red and it shines under the moon light. It’s too dark and she’s too far away for me to see her eyes. But even from afar, I can feel her gaze burning with piercing curiosity.

The curse takes full effect, and I know that somewhere, the clock has struck midnight.

“Leave!” I growl at this beautiful witch standing before me, unable to bear a stranger seeing me in my most vulnerable state. “Leave!”

But she continues to stand there like a frozen statue.

I open my mouth to growl another command at her, but frost sweeps through my body, rendering me completely immobile. Before I turn entirely into stone, I see her eyes widen in shock.